


The Haunting of Severus Snape

by bleedcolor, ruxicassiopeia (ruxicaprince)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Temporary) Character Death, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Severus Snape needs more love, Suicide Attempt, Unusual Magic Situations, a haunting without ghosts, descriptions of death, it's a happy ending, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxicaprince/pseuds/ruxicassiopeia
Summary: The night Severus Snape overhears Trelawney's prophecy, a stranger dies in his arms.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 40
Kudos: 268
Collections: Snape Bigbang 2019





	The Haunting of Severus Snape

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for SnapeBang19. Many, many thanks to [DrFaustus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFaustus/works) and [Ruxicassiopeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vionavasthi/pseuds/ruxicassiopeia) for their lovely, lovely art ♥
> 
> And, as always, many thanks to [LikeLightinGlass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LikeLightinGlass/works) for constant support and cheerleading. What would I do without you?

[](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrFaustus/works)  


  
_Grant me the serenity  
to accept the things I cannot change,  
the courage to change the things I can,  
and the wisdom to know the difference.  
\--Reinhold Niebuhr_

**March, 1980**

“And _stay_ out, you slimy bastard!”

Hard fingers dig into the meat of his arm as he’s shoved forward, stumbling out onto the wet cobblestone street. He manages to regain his bearings and as he draws himself upright again he can hear the raucous laughter that erupts just before the rough-hewn door of the pub bangs shut behind him. Rage burns through him--heats his face, arcs down through his chest, sends his hand to his wand. He could ravage this flea-pit, tear it into splinters, burn it to the ground with a single curse. None of them would dare treat him like this, if they knew the sorts of things he knew. 

He lowers his wand, fingers gripping tight around its length. The Dark Lord will be displeased with him, if he causes any further scene. There are plans in motion, though he’s hardly been taken into his Master’s confidence. It would be worth more than his life to inadvertently upset whatever scheme his lord has in place. Instead he draws moisture from his cheeks, spits a hard globule at the door. The sound of it hitting the wood is lost in the patter of rain falling on the street, but he leaves his silent promise with it all the same. 

Some day he’ll show every one of them what he’s capable of; the name Severus Snape will be spoken with respect, with _reverence_.

He glances around him as he moves further into the relative safety of the shadowed space between the pub and the neighboring shop, gaze travelling over the dark shapes of rubbish where it’s heaped up against the Hog Head’s back wall. The rain puddling on the street catches the reflection of the light from the street, shining iridescent like an oil slick, though he can think of no reason why Hogsmeade would be polluted like a filthy Muggle city. They poison everything, it seems, even places they should not be able to reach. But a change is coming, he knows, his Master has plans.

Plans he whispers to only those he considers worthy, Severus’ mind reminds him bitterly. Being sent to the Hog’s Head had seemed like a rather transparent ploy to get him out of the way only a few hours ago. But with what he’s overheard, surely he can show the Dark Lord that he is one of those select few, that he is wholly dedicated to their cause. Whatever plans the Dark Lord has, he’ll want to know what Severus has heard. 

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…_ The gravel in the woman’s voice had sent a chill through him, though he didn’t usually put much stock into the validity of Divination. For a moment, as he recalls the words of the prophecy, he thinks he can feel that chill again, electrifying, until he hears the crackle of the air around him in the alley, feels the way his hair is standing on end. He smells the sharp tang of ozone, but by then it’s too late.

With a deafening crack and a wave of heat that causes raindrops to sizzle in the air around him, light flashes, blinding white. The scent of it fills his nose and scalds his throat and Severus believes, for a moment, that he must be dead. But when he blinks his eyes open the after-image of light slowly recedes into dancing spots and the silhouette of a man, staggering forward from the depths of the alley.

His ears are ringing and he blinks again before the lurching shape moving toward him reconciles itself into something even more familiar: messy hair, unruly even under the weight of the rain, the glint of glass and metal frames in the dim glow of the street lamps, and James Potter’s broad shoulders. A curse. The bastard has managed to curse him somehow, and with one of the most dazzling displays of magic that Severus ever seen. Except, as the seconds tick past, the expected pain doesn’t come.

Somehow, he realizes, Potter has miscalculated. He’s failed in whatever cruelty he’d hoped to visit upon Severus with his lightning strike of a spell, leaving Severus fully capable of defending himself. And this time, _this time_ , Potter’s cronies are nowhere to be seen. He raises his arm, assured of his triumph. The Dark Lord will not be pleased with him for delaying his message, but surely he will make an exception for Severus taking care of the filth still moving toward him.

Before he can so much as utter the first syllable of his own curse, however, Potter does something entirely unexpected and lurches forward into Severus. The collision knocks them both to the wet, dirty pavement, Severus’ wand flying free of his hand and the bulk of Potter’s poundage crushing him. He tries to struggle away from the dead weight of his tormentor’s body, groping for his wand in a panic. A low, pained groan emerges from Potter and Severus glances over to try and figure out what the bastard is planning to try now that he’s disarmed.

Except, and Severus goes still as he realizes it, the body on top of him is _not James Potter_.

The man looks like Potter, there is no mistaking the resemblance, but this close the differences are stark as well. At least, they’re apparent to someone who has spent as much time being tormented by Potter as Severus has. As he watches the stranger’s eyes flutter open Severus realizes that it is a small blessing in his life that James Potter was not born looking more like this man, his eyes a vibrant green instead of dull hazel. Somehow greener, even, than Lily’s eyes, which Severus would not have thought possible. His mysterious assailant’s nose is narrower, his lips more full than Potter could ever hope to lay claim to.

A short, neat beard covers the line of his jaw, hiding most of whatever truths Severus might divine, there, except for a thin white scar, bisecting the dark hair close to his chin. Except that is a revelation unto itself, James Potter would never be caught dead with a beard covering his face, marring his perceived “best features,” nevermind allowing any wound to scar his face permanently. And the scar nearly hiding in his beard is not the only one that Potter would object to. 

The scar on the stranger’s brow is much more obvious, red and uniquely shaped--a lightning strike that stretches down nearly to the corner of his eye, fading into laugh lines. The man on top of him is at least 10 years older than Severus, perhaps more, but none of these superficial facts are what convinces him that this is not James Potter attempting some misguided prank or attack. What wizard worth his salt could not alter his appearance or his age, after all? And, as much as Severus hates to admit it, Potter has always been perfectly capable at whatever magic he turns his attention to.

No, what convinces him that this man has no connection to James Potter and his ilk is the way he smiles at Severus when his eyes focus on his face, his gaze almost adoring. No amount of magic, not even Amortentia, could put that expression on James Potter’s face with Severus Snape on the receiving end.

“Severus.”

Even the way the stranger says his name is suffused with pleasure, a low murmur of contentment, though Severus has no recollection of meeting this man, no understanding of _why_ he should seem so glad to see him, when as far as Severus knows they are perfect strangers. It’s unsettling, it’s confusing, and Severus has never known how to deal with either of those things particularly well. When a hand lifts to stroke along his cheek, sending a surprisingly warm shiver down his spine, Severus decides enough is enough. He doesn’t know this man, he certainly doesn’t owe him anything at all.

That is, of course, when he notices the blood, the stranger’s palm red and glistening as it drops back to his side and for the first time Severus notices the heat of it soaking into his robes, notices the hot, coppery scent of it underneath the scent of ozone.

“What--” the word chokes itself out of Severus’ throat and the stranger smiles up at him once again, unaware or uncaring of the ragged wound that Severus can now see splitting open his abdomen.

“Severus,” the man murmurs again and reaches out to take his hand, squeezing with a surprising strength. “I’m so sorry, love.” He takes a shuddering breath and Severus thinks the bones in his hands might crumble under the tight grasp. “I broke my promise.” In the dim light of the alley, a droplet of water--rain or a tear?--slides from the corner of the man’s eye. “I broke my promise. I’m sorry, I won’t be home.”

If Severus were watching it happen to anyone else, seeing the scene played out before him as a play or drama on the theatre stage, he might think of it as nonsense, sentimental hogwash, but the way the grip on his hand tightens, the quiet desperation in the voice begging him for forgiveness, and the reality of the blood--so much blood--twists something deep in Severus’ chest, something he wouldn’t have thought he had anymore. He lifts a shaking hand to carefully stroke wild, tangled strands of hair back from the strangers face, his fingers brushing over the strange scar.

“It’s...it’s all right,” Severus soothes, haltingly, the hollow comfort awkward and heavy on his tongue. “It’s all right, everything is going to be fine.” With his free hand he gropes blindly for his wand as the stranger’s breathing turns labored. If he could find his wand he could at least Apparate them to St. Mungos, even if his limited arsenal of healing spells could not help with the great, gaping gash running through the man’s midsection.

“Severus,” the stranger whispers, an edge of panic replacing the affection that has colored the name until this point. Helplessly, Severus abandons thoughts of his wand and leans closer, wondering anew how this man could possibly know him. More to the point, why should this stranger be so upset over a promise that Severus certainly had no memory of? 

And, likewise unsettling, why does Severus care? What is it about this man that has reached inside of him and twisted, tangling him up? Why does he care about the hot blood seeping into the cloth of his robes, the fierce clutch of the hand in his? Why does he follow its urging forward, until the man in his arms crashes their lips together with an almost frantic intensity.

Severus has been kissed before, a quick, awkward mash of lips in a narrow corridor at school after curfew, and an equally awkward, sloppy exchange of lips and tongues behind a run down pub in Knockturn Alley, but neither of those experiences could have prepared him for _this_ kiss. The man in his arms slides their lips together with a skill that startles Severus. A gentle nip to his lower lip makes him gasp in surprise, and the stranger takes advantage, sliding their tongues together.

Somehow the faint, coppery tang of blood only heightens the experience, hot and fervent. A hand twists in his hair, tugs, and he’s pulled even closer with a low groan of desperation, like the tight connection of their mouths isn’t quite enough. Severus has been kissed before, but he’s never been kissed like _this_ , as if he’s being devoured and worshipped all at once, as if nothing in this moment is more important than the press of his lips to this stranger’s, the slick-slide of their tongues mapping out the unfortunate boundaries of their connection. Severus is swept up in the heat of it, the desperation. He’s never supposed a kiss could bring him to the dizzying heights of arousal as quickly as this one has, excitement fizzing through his blood.

Or perhaps that’s the lack of oxygen beginning to affect him as a talented tongue twirls, tangles boldly with his own. 

Too soon, far too soon, Severus has to break the kiss with a whimper of loss, sucking swathes of air into his aching lungs. He looks down at the man in his arms, lost in a wash of lingering pleasure and confusion as he tries to catch both his scattered thoughts and his breath. “You--”

He doesn’t know what he wants to say, but it doesn’t matter as the stranger smiles up at him, green eyes losing focus, a sticky hand stroking his cheek once more.

“I love you, Severus,” the man says, the words a shaky exhale of breath that is not followed by an inhale. 

[](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruxicassiopeia/works)  


  


“ _No,_ ” Severus hisses as cold dread wraps itself around him, unable to process anything that is not gut-wrenching denial. There is no reason for him to feel the weightlessness of loss, but he still feels adrift as he gives the limp form in his arms a hard shake. “No, _no_ , wake _up_!”

But his panicked urging is for naught. The man doesn’t stir again, pale and blood soaked in Severus’ arms. The damp is soaking into his robes now, chilling, but Severus finds he can’t even scrape his thoughts together for even locating his wand to perform a warming charm. _Who was this stranger? How had he known Severus? Claimed to_ love _him_? And, worst of all, _how was he meant to dispose of a dead body without being locked away for murder?_

He cannot bring himself to move, staring down at that slack face, its features familiar and hated and strange and new all at once. The sound of his name, whispered lovingly, echoes through his mind as the rain deepens, cold, hard droplets spattering down around them. _It will be Azkaban for me_ , he thinks dully, but still cannot muster even a twitch of effort to leave the stranger where he is, cannot abandon him to the notoriety of being found amongst the rubbish of a dirty alley in Hogsmeade.

 _”I love you, Severus,”_ rings through his mind again, shakes the core of him. He cannot, _will not_ imagine that there is any modicum of truth to the words, except, perhaps, the addled truth that confusion brings, but he thinks somewhere, in the wide world, there is someone who must love this man, who will be missing kisses that strike like lightning and the soft adoration of green eyes, and some previously unknown well of sympathy aches in his chest. No, he cannot abandon the stranger, even to save his own skin. 

It is, perhaps, the first time since Lily turned him away that Severus has found himself worried about anything that is not his own well-being. His eyes trace over puckered scar tissue and he wonders that there is anything unselfish still hiding in the very depths of him. _If I’d managed to find my wand,_ he thinks, guilt welling up abruptly in his ribcage. _If I’d been quicker…_

“I’m sorry,” Severus’ voice rasps out of him, barely audible over the drum of rain. He startles at the sound of it, and swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. A raindrop slips down the crease of closed, bloodless lips, and without thinking Severus leans forward, eyes sliding closed as he takes a kiss of his own, wishing he could share his warmth with the stranger, wishing this was a fairy story, that a single kiss could wake the prince. 

If anything, the lips beneath his seem to grow even colder. Too cold, in fact. Severus blinks open his eyes and stares at the empty space of his lap, at the last sparkle of light that crackles in front of him and fades into nothing. The stranger has vanished.

To his right, the back door of the Hog’s Head wheezes open and a bright lumos illuminates the alley.

“Is that you, Snape? I thought I told you to piss off already, you bastard!”

The ruddy red of blood still stains his palms and Aberforth Dumbledore lifts his wand higher to widen the glow of light, steps closer.

“What’s that you have all over you?”

Panic floods his magic, succeeds in what Severus’ fumbling reach had failed in while the stranger had sprawled in his lap, and summons his wand to his palm with a soft _thwack_! Out of the corner of his eye he sees Aberforth’s snowy brows raise in shock.

 _Crack!_ The world around him dissolves into the sharp pull of Apparation.

**June, 1980**

“Longbottom’s bitch will whelp his heir at the end of July,” Bellatrix’s sullen purr is unmistakable, even from behind the heavy mask the Dark Lord orders them to wear. Severus isn’t certain why he does; Bellatrix isn’t the only one of them readily identified by their dulcet tones. 

Many who have gathered tonight are too quickly distinguished by the whine of their voices, a hazard of sharing a school dormitory and late night pissing contests. As for those that have indistinct vocal characteristics, most are too arrogant, too assured of their own invulnerability, to bother hiding their faces when their Lord isn’t present. There are only a handful of Death Eaters that Severus does not know the names of, and fewer still that he could not identify by sight. There are likely others who could positively identify every single one of their number, but he’s never bothered asking questions. 

Questions lead to trouble. It may have taken him a long time to learn the lesson, but knowledge hard-won lasts the longest.

“She’s been boasting about it up and down Diagon Alley, as if she were the first witch to quicken.” There’s an obvious sneer in Bellatrix’s words now and Severus watches, silent, as she spins her wand over her fingers, sickly green sparks flaring from its tip in the dim light. He doesn’t know what Alice Selwyn ever did to garner Bellatrix Black’s displeasure, he doesn’t remember them ever crossing wands in school. But then again, maybe it isn’t so difficult to figure out: Alice is plump with her husband’s child and there is no hint of any Lestrange heir.

“The Longbottoms? Filthy blood traitors. No spawn of theirs could possibly offer a challenge to our Lord.” Lucius’ oily voice is edging on bored, the disdainful words emerging from just behind Severus.

Every muscle along his spine tenses in surprise, but Severus manages not to flinch, _just_. He considers, for a petty moment, stepping back and digging the heel of his boot into Lucius’ toes; considers claiming that he didn’t realize Lucius was standing so close, though now that the bastard has announced himself Severus can practically feel the heat of him at his back, muffled breaths raising every hair on the nape of his neck. Lucius Malfoy is not the last person he wants standing at his back, but he’s not high on the list of Severus’ trusted allies, either.

Before he can quite decide if he wants to give in to the childish urge to stomp on toes--doubtful that Malfoy would even notice the offense to his foot; he wears dragonhide boots, but he’d certainly have something to say about the mess Severus would make of his shoe--a wavering voice speaks up from just beyond the edges of their gathering. One of the few that Severus can never place, though something is nigglingly familiar about the voice and manner of speech. Whoever it is, he always skirts skittishly along the boundaries of their meetings, as if he is not remotely assured of his welcome.

“The P-Potters, my lord. Their child will be born in July.” Severus feels his breath catch and freeze in his throat, the mystery of the speaker’s identity no longer important as he digests the news of a Potter child. _Lily’s_ child, who might inherit her shy smile and dusting of freckles, the bold upturn of her chin and the green of her eyes. Lily’s child, who will no doubt hate the likes of Severus Snape just as fiercely as both of its parents, who may have Lily’s stubbornness or knack for charms, but will just as easily inherit the curve of James Potter’s sneer and easy, casual cruelty. _James Potter’s child_ , Severus thinks, hands curling into tight, angry fists at his sides, _that has made Lily a target._

“The _Potters_! Worse than the Longbottoms with their mudblood sympathies.” Lucius says it with outright disgust, unable to credit the idea of marrying a Muggle born witch. He’s always been willfully blind to the fact that the mixing of blood has only ever strengthened the magic of pure lines, blissfully unaware that Severus Snape, dirty half-blood, could knock him flat in terms of raw power.

For the first time that evening, the Dark Lord speaks. He wears no mask and his voice is clear and calm as it weaves through the muttering dissent of his followers, almost musing. “An old bloodline, nonetheless. A dangerous one.”

“Inevitably weakened, my lord,” Lucius protests, unwisely in Severus’ opinion. “Potter has defiled his line; the child will be a nothing more than a mongrel!”

The Dark Lord stands from his dias at the front of the room and a hush falls over the assembled crowd. Severus tries to step aside unobtrusively, having no desire to be caught between Malfoy and Voldemort’s displeasure, and they all watch as their lord smooths his robes, the motion sure and unhurried. He picks a path through his followers, several practically falling over themselves in order to clear the way, and comes to a standstill in front of Lucius.

“I was not aware, Lucius, that you had such insight into my concerns." The Dark Lord’s voice is deceptively pleasant, but the words spark a chill through Severus all the same. He tries to shrink even further away from his place beside Malfoy. “Perhaps you think you know best, what actions I should choose to take?”

At last Malfoy seems to hear the danger edging the words, to realize the foolishness of his haughty proclamation, and drops his head into a nod of submission. “Of course not, my lord. I misspoke."

The silence stretches between them for a few moments, Voldemort allowing the weight of his displeasure to sink in, before he finally shifts his gaze away from Malfoy, looking instead toward Severus. Somehow he always knows, despite the masks, just who he’s focused on and Severus longs bitterly for anonymity. "You’ve been awfully quiet this evening, Severus.” The Dark Lord’s observation is still spoken mildly, but icy apprehension runs down his spine. Severus hasn’t yet garnered his Lord’s displeasure and he’d rather continue to avoid it, if he can. “What do you think? Shall I discount this threat to my power? A threat I might still be ignorant of, if not for you."

There is a hint of amusement in Voldemort’s tone now, and alarm rings through Severus as he thinks of overhearing the Prophecy. The stranger’s kiss flashes through his mind, electric and dangerous, the memory of the taste of copper lingering on his tongue even now. But a dead man has nothing to fear, he is outside of the Dark Lord’s influence now; Severus is the one who must tread carefully, for Lily’s sake and his own.

"I would not presume to know what choice you should make, my lord," Severus hedges carefully, taking an uncharitable delight in Malfoy’s nearly imperceptible flinch at his side. “I can only say what I might choose to do in your place.”

There is a muffled snort from somewhere to his left and a mutter of disbelief that is more than clear enough for both Severus and the Dark Lord to make out. "If it were up to Snape he’d keep the bitch alive for his bedroom."

"I had forgotten.” Voldemort’s voice is almost musing, his eyes glittering in the dim candlelight as he seems to consider the words. Severus is reminded of a book he’d had as a child, filled with pictures of sharks and the way their black eyes had spoken of death, even in the frozen stillness of Muggle photos. “I heard of your fondness for the little mudblood bitch in your school days. A weakness, Severus. But, perhaps, one that might be forgiven, considering the circumstances of your own birth.” The Dark Lord smiles, a pleasant void, and Severus knows suddenly, certainly, that he is less than nothing to the monster standing in front of him.

“You have been a devoted follower. Would you have me save her for you?"

"Yes." His voice cracks on the word, and Severus averts his gaze, as if it’s shame and not fear that’s coursing through him now. As if Voldemort has offered him everything he could possibly want in the world, and not Lily Evans’ death warrant. “Please, my lord.”

**October, 1981**

Albus Dumbledore is a more exacting master than the Dark Lord has ever dreamed of being. Some days he can't remember which of his two masters he's truly serving, which one he hates more: Voldemort and the ever-looming threat he presents or Dumbledore and his infuriating ability to talk Severus into knots.

His second year teaching and Severus still has no idea how the crafty old bastard manages to get him to do things that he has no intention of agreeing to. He walks into a room with the headmaster, resolute, and inevitably leaves it with his head spinning and any number of unpalatable things on his plate.

Today the task he's been assigned is less objectionable than some others, though demanding. Dragon pox is making its way through the ranks of the students and Severus has been tasked with brewing infirmary potions. After the previous year's outbreak of the pox, he could make these potions in his sleep. The demand for the medicines is such, however, that he doesn't have the time for sleep, too busy juggling delicately timed brews with teaching classes, not to mention his _extracurricular_ activities.

Being at the beck and call of two demanding wizards, each diametrically opposed to the other's goals and ideals, is exactly the sort of treat it sounds like. Severus yawns widely as he gives the fever-reducer a final anticlockwise stir, before leaving it to simmer for 2 hours, and then turns his attention to the next cauldron and its contents. 

Idly he entertains thoughts of somehow freeing himself from the services of both Dumbledore _and_ the Dark Lord, perhaps betraying each to the other, and carving out a quiet life on some abandoned tundra somewhere far from here. He'd never manage it, of course. Apart from the fact that such foolishness would only bring about his untimely, unpleasant death, the potential cost would be far too high. He doubts very much that Albus Dumbledore would sacrifice Lily to Voldemort if he broke his word, but Severus doesn't entirely trust that he wouldn't either. 

For all his geniality, Severus remembers the coldness in his eyes when he came to beg for Lily's life. _You disgust me_ , Dumbledore had said, the wind around whipping around them on the hilltop driving the sound of the words to Severus' ears. Severus disgusted himself. How had it all turned out so wrong, he wonders, carefully shaking out a single runespoor scale into the potion in front of him and watching as the color deepened from a pale violet into midnight blue. He remembers his first day at Hogwarts, Lily by his side in the Great Hall as the first years stood in an awkward cluster, waiting to be sorted, remembers all the things he'd hoped for.

And here he stands, a decade later, with none of it, not even his only friend. Lily still won't speak to him, when they cross paths at Order meetings she only gives him darting glances and moves past without speaking. He remembers the dream he'd entertained when they were children: opening their own curse-breaking business in Diagon Alley with fame and riches at their disposal. Now he just debates the relative dangers of poisoning the two most powerful wizards alive with himself. It isn't the worst idle fantasy to entertain while running on the dregs of 3 hours sleep and a pepper-up potion some thirty hours previous, but it's hardly realistic.

He's stirring a handful of newts' tails into the cauldron in front of him, closing his eyes for just a few seconds to relieve their tired burning, when he feels the air around him thicken and stir. The hairs on his arms stand on end and his eyes snap back open in the panic of knowing his potions will be ruined a split-second before blinding light and the burning metal scent of ozone fills the laboratory, a violent crack of sound that reverberates through his chest chasing after it.

A high, thin wail echoes just beyond the ringing in Severus' ears and then falls abruptly silent as he blinks away the blue-white afterimage of the lightning. Slowly the room around him reasserts itself and Severus gazes at the gloom with his breath caught in his throat, waiting for-- what, the stranger? He scoffs at the foolishness of the thought, the man had _died_ , right in his arms, but he doesn't know what this is, doesn't know what to expect next. He'd tried to research what had happened, the first time, but could find no answers to what he had experienced. The closest he'd come had been a description of visions of Merlin, in an obscure divination text, but that was an absurd thought, for more reasons than one.

When seconds pass and no one steps out of the shadows lingering in the corners, Severus gives a soft sigh, though he couldn't say if it was an expression of relief or of disappointment. Reluctantly he turns to try and salvage his potions, mind turning over the mystery in his mind like a worn stone, when he catches sight of a flash of unexpected color from the corner of his eye. A Gryffindor red bundle of cloth it seems, the same garish shade as an artistically rendered spill of blood, lays in a small heap, just beyond the corner of his work station.

He looks back to his cauldrons and grimaces at the now-useless slop still bubbling merrily away in front of him. With a flick of his wand Severus banishes the ruined potions and turns his attention to the curious occurrence in front of him. A sharply muttered _'Revelio'_ elicits no response from the array of fabric and so Severus kneels, determined to get to the bottom of this puzzle. It is ill-advised, perhaps, but there is no sense of danger or dark magic from the pile of scarlet, so he reaches forward to pull the material off of whatever it conceals beneath.

Immediately he wishes he hadn't, falling back with a sharp cry of horror from the revelation: the small, still form of a child, pallid face smeared with drying blood. And not just any child-- Severus has only seen him from a distance, and just the one time, perhaps a month ago, but he recognizes the curl of the black hair, the upturned nose. Worst of all, he recognizes those eyes, green and blank and fixed--Lily's eyes. Helplessly, hopelessly, Severus shifts back close to lift the child off of the floor, the red fabric of what he now recognizes as a blanket falling away to expose the child's footed pajamas, decorated with darting snitches on a pale blue background.

Numbness sinks into every part of him as he shifts the boy-- _Harry_ , he recalls, Lily had named him Harry--close to his chest. He hardly weighs anything, he's so small, and Severus doesn't understand. Dumbledore had said he would keep them-- _her_ \--safe. How could this have happened? And why would Severus find the boy here, of all places? He reaches up and strokes the hair away from the small, bloodied face, dazed as he tries to understand. Where are Lily and Potter? What has happened to them? 

Panic strikes through Severus at the thought and he jerks his head up, eyes darting around the room to reassure himself that there are no further unpleasant discoveries waiting for him. There aren't, but it is little consolation. He looks back down at Harry, trying to find answers. As he stares down at the child, however, the mystery only deepens. The only sign of injury on the boy is the peculiar lightning-strike of a wound that splits the thin flesh of his forehead. And, suddenly, Severus realizes, he _recognizes_ it, the very same shape as the ghastly scar on the man in the alley. 

His breath catches in his throat, his mind whirls. _What does it mean?_ With shaking fingers he smooths the child's silky curls further back from his face. Were the boy--Lily's baby--and the man in the alley connected somehow? Is it possible that they are the same person? He looks down at the small body tucked against him, but there is no stirring of breath, any warmth still in the boy is provided by Severus alone, and he will grow stiff in his embrace; this child will never see tomorrow, much less adulthood.

Severus is surprised by the way the thought aches in his chest. He's never been interested in children, finds the reality of James Potter's progeny even _less_ appealing, but the boy in his arms does not only belong to Potter. Even if he did, Severus thinks in surprise, the loss of an innocent child is more than a little distasteful. How many times had he wished the children at his primary school wouldn't judge him for his drunkard father? He can still hear Petunia Evans' voice, sneering and haughty _"You're that_ Snape _boy._ "

This boy, this _baby_ , was not guilty of whatever his father had done, but he'd suffered for it all the same, for the sake of a prophecy. A prophecy that _he_ had shared with the Dark Lord. He closes his eyes, feels himself shake with the anger and guilt of that wretched truth. And what of Lily? What else has his foolishness wrought? As if summoned by the thought, the door to the laboratory creaks loudly and Severus' starts, opening his eyes to the sight of Dumbledore standing in the doorway.

"Severus?" Dumbledore's voice is grave, obviously concerned. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Reflexively, he looks down and draws in a gasping sort of breath at the sudden emptiness of his arms. To the headmaster he must look absolutely ridiculous, crouched on the middle of the floor in his laboratory, arms wrapped around his own midsection in some grotesque parody of a hug. He realizes, abruptly, that there is a strange dampness on his cheeks, too. When had he started crying? He lifts his head to look at Dumbledore once more.

"You said you would keep them safe." His voice is strange to his own ears, thick and ragged.

Dumbledore sags under the accusation. He doesn't question how Severus knows, though he must wonder. "They put their faith in the wrong person," he says quietly. "You'd know something of that, Severus, wouldn't you?"

Severus gives a low moan and closes his eyes again, turns his face away from the bitter truth of the words, lets despair claw into him. _A waste._ Everything he has tried to do, every single thing he has worked toward in his life, those few things he has dared to want, all ripped away from him as a result of his own stupidity. What does he have to live for?

"Her boy survives," says Dumbledore, and Severus opens his eyes.

**1991**

Time doesn't stop. Some days Severus still doesn't understand how it's possible that he now lives in a world without Lily Evans. The idea is as preposterous to him as the idea of living in a world without magic. He cannot fathom it, and yet it is the reality he faces each morning. Nearly 10 years have passed and some days he still wakes up with the knowledge pressing in on him like a knife blade. 

Other days are worse still, passing by without even a thought of Lily, until the quiet hours of night surround him with darkness and guilt. 

This is not one of those days; Lily hovers in every one of his thoughts, a ghost. The boy sits at the Gryffindor table after his sorting, awe writ clearly on his expression. From here Severus cannot make out the green of his eyes, but clearly notes the suspicion in his expression as one of his housemates leans in to whisper to him--Snape's less than stellar reputation coming back to haunt him, no doubt. The students whisper about him every year, always warning each other about what might happen if they ran afoul of nasty Professor Snape.

In the years since he has returned to Hogwarts, Severus has been reviled by the students almost unilaterally. He is not blind to his flaws; Severus Snape does not have the temperament for teaching, though he finds he manages well enough most days. There is, perhaps, one student a year that Severus finds it in himself to appreciate, in whom he manages to instill a love of potions and learning.

Harry Potter will not be one of those students. Dumbledore had taken him aside at the beginning of summer, and again just the evening before, to remind him of all the things he was and all the things that he wasn't.

Severus knows his role, knows how to play it. Harry Potter must hate him.

It's easier than he expects it to be, but perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. Dimly, he remembers the utter injustices of being 11 years old and having the world on your shoulders. Of course giving the boy an endless parade of injustices to rail against would make hating Severus easy.

The difficulty is not in making the child hate him, but in finding his hands tied when Potter rushes headlong into danger. The idiot boy seems to think it's his duty to save everyone, a Gryffindor all the way down to his toes, much to Severus' disgust. He survives his first year, rife with mountain trolls, hexes, and puzzles and traps set for adults far cleverer than he and his merry trio of misfits. _Voldemort himself_ again runs up against the wall that is Harry Potter and falters. The boy emerges from Hogwarts that first year, hale and hearty, by nothing more than astonishing, bloody-minded good luck.

It is surprisingly easy to hate the boy, for that. Pettiness breathes and grows, a living creature beneath his breastbone, envy has been his constant companion for all the years that he can remember and here is this child with green eyes that follow him everywhere in suspicion and mistrust. Severus wants to rail against it. _What do you know?_ he thinks bitterly, watching the boy beam as red and gold wash over the Slytherin decorations for the house cup. _What do you know of all the things that have been sacrificed for your happiness, for your simple ignorance?_

Yes, it is surprisingly easy to hate the boy.

**1993**

The boy grows more and more into the shadow of his father, unconcerned with the worries of those who have sworn to protect him. He begins his second year with driving an enchanted flying car into the Whomping Willow and by the end of it, when he has survived petrifications, the Chamber of Secrets, and a basilisk, Severus has an ulcer from stress.

When Sirius Black escapes from Azkaban, Severus forgets that he has any connection with the boy other than his resentment. After Sirius Black escapes the Dementor's Kiss he forgets everything except his anger.

It is always unnaturally quiet in the castle after the students leave, and Severus feels like a vengeful spirit haunting the stone corridors. Dumbledore is at the Ministry, cunningly wringing apologies and grovelling from Fudge, Black is at large--still stunningly proficient at heaping humiliation on Severus, even after 12 years in Azkaban-- and, somewhere in Surrey, Harry Potter is sleeping peacefully, ignorant of the chaos he leaves in his wake.

For a brief, shining moment, Severus had truly believed that he would be the hero. He'd thought he would be able to shed the tarnish Black and Potter had smeared on his name all those years ago, that he would show Dumbledore how right he had been, that Lupin and Black had never been the innocents they'd pretended. For one brilliant moment, holding them at wandpoint, he thought he would receive the accolades he deserved, the recognition that he is _trying_ to do the right thing, despite the fact that no one, not even Dumbledore, truly believes him capable of it.

Instead, he stalks through the empty halls of Hogwarts, burning up with his anger.

He winds his way through the labyrinth of the dungeons and then upward, through the receiving hall and past the deserted classrooms, continuing his restless path through the castle until he reaches the top of the Astronomy Tower. He paces around the narrow room, still agitated by his fit of temper. A storm is brewing over the Forbidden Forest, he can see the dark clouds gathering from the ramparts, and for a moment he wishes he could become part of it, fade into the driving rain and the crash of thunder, to burst with the flashes of lightning.

If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it, letting his anger break apart into the wind. For a moment he wishes so hard that he doesn't taste the sharp tang of electricity at the back of his throat, doesn't feel the pressure of the air falling in on him until it's too late and the roar and flash of it is upon him.

" _You_." The word is snarled before the ringing fades from his ears, spoken with the same loathing he feels those mornings he wakes up and remembers that the only person at the heart of his misery himself. When he turns and blinks away the light-blindness he is not surprised at all to see the boy, glaring at him with such hatred it scorches away his breath.

"Potter," he says, feeling a bit stunned. This boy is older than the still round-cheeked child who left on the train only a day ago, his jawline beginning to lengthen into the squared lines of his father's before him, a scraggly patch of stubble just starting to grow in under his cheeks, but too fine to need tending to very often. It isn't until Potter rushes at him, headlong, that he notices the blood, runnels of crimson dripping down the boy's forearms.

"I _hate_ you," he chokes out, shoving his fists ineffectively against Severus' chest, slapping at him, unarmed and weakened from blood loss, but clearly determined to do what little damage he can manage. "I hate you! You _killed_ him!"

Potter is like a wild animal, striking out furiously, with no rhyme or reason, and it's all Severus can do to catch his arms, gripping tightly at his elbows and trying to gauge the damage that's been wrought. " _What have you done, you stupid boy?_ " he hisses in horror as he sees the deep cuts that have been sliced--self-inflicted? What could have driven him to _this_ \--into the delicate wrists.

Potter sobs when he can no longer hit Severus and all at once collapses into him, a dead weight. "I'm so tired," he whispers, tears leaking from the corners of his closed eyes. "I just wanted it to stop. Sirius--"

" _Black_ ," Severus growls out as the boy's shoulders hitch in another harsh sob. He might have known that bastard was somehow at fault for this, Merlin knew he'd tried to drive Severus to his wits' end in their school days.

"It's _my_ fault he's dead," Potter whispers, and Severus goes cold with shock. "I just want it to all be over."

The boy is limp in his arms now, sobbing harder, and Severus unthinkingly tugs him close. "Shh," he soothes softly, patting ineffectively at the boy's back. "All will be well." He hasn't had to comfort another person since the time Lily had cried about Petunia hating her, and he'd been shit at it then. He doesn't think the boy believes the words any more than he does, but he clutches at Severus' robes and doesn't let go until the light fades from his eyes.

Hours later, Severus still sits in the middle of the Astronomy Tower, watching the storm that is finally dying out over the trees in the distance. The anger that had driven him to the heights of the tower has faded and he turns over the boy's words in his mind again and again.

He is tired.

**1994**

The Triwizard Tournament brings Severus' ulcer roaring back to life, among other things. 

Yet another storm waits on the horizon, darkening like a bruise on his arm and Severus watches the boy during the days, worries at the mystery of who could have put his name in the Goblet of Fire. He urges Dumbledore to take the boy away and keep him somewhere safe, magical contracts be damned, but Dumbledore only reassures him that they've put safeguards in place, as if Champions haven't died in droves for the chance at glory.

The boy is only 14 and Severus dreams of Potter's blood on his hands.

He wakes again and again, gasping in the darkness of night, with the memory of ragged sobs in his ears. 

He watches the boy out-fly a dragon and risk himself for the sake of a girl he doesn't even know and as the final task looms closer, he finds sleep ever more elusive.

_"Please!"_

_Severus wakes in the dark of the infirmary and gropes anxiously for his wand. There had been no one but him when he'd fallen asleep, and now a figure was lurching forward in the darkness, lit in shadow by the lightning flashes of the storm outside._

_"Professor, please! He's killed--! It's my fault!" Hands clutch at his robes and Severus struggles backwards in fear. Potter's face looms out of the darkness, dirty and strangely distorted._

_"Get away from me," Severus chokes out, trying to catch his breath to shout for Pomfrey. Potter and his cronies have already tried to kill him once tonight, he won't manage to survive a second time._

_"The tournament! He's _back_! You have to--to stop--!_

Severus bolts upright in the dark, sweat-soaked and gasping for breath. The dream--he's had it before, so clear and real in the infirmary after his run-in with Lupin in the Shrieking Shack. Except, he understands now; it hadn't been a nightmare, the way he'd thought the next morning when he'd woken up with Poppy leaning over him. It had been the spectre of Potter.

Was that moment when this thing had started? But what, then, had been the catalyst. Nevermind that he is being haunted by a boy not even fully grown, much less _dead_ , but _why_? Why would Potter seek _him_ out? He closes his eyes, trying to draw up the memory of that pale face in the darkness of the infirmary.

 _He's_ killed _\--The tournament!_ the memory whispers to him.

"It hasn't happened," Severus whispers to himself in the quiet of the room, desperate. None of the visions have come true. They're just that, _visions_. Some bizarre production of his overwrought mind, surely. He's never found any explanation for them, isn't any closer to understanding than he was that first time, in the alley behind the Hog's Head.

 _He's back. He's back. He's back._

It echoes in his mind, circles around and around. The mystery of Potter's name in the Goblet. The darkening mark on his arm.

It hasn't happened… _yet_.

**1996**

Dumbledore is dying.

Dumbledore is dying, and he expects Severus to help him along when the time is right. He thinks of that Halloween night, so many years ago, when he'd wondered if there was any sacrifice the old man wouldn't make for his cause. Funny, to think that he'd known just exactly how ruthless the bastard was, nearly 16 years ago and sleep-deprived. Only now Severus is much too entangled in his machinations to escape.

 _And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?_ he asks again, silently. But what was left of his soul, anyway? A bit of pettiness and hardly anything else. So many years, wasted. Devoted to revenge on the Dark Lord, for Lily, devoted to saving her child, devoted to serving the so-called _Light_. What sort of Light is it, he wonders, that will lead a child into death? What sort of Light, to lead Severus to murder?

He cradles his head in his hands. A bottle of firewhiskey waits for him, mere feet away, but he cannot muster the energy to retrieve it. How is _this_ what is right? The boy raised to such a brutal and bloody end and Severus is just supposed to...accept it? After everything he's sacrificed?

He thinks he might weep, at the senselessness of it all. What is the point of living, when it leads again and again to such suffering? He could end it, he thinks suddenly, straightening where he sits. Why should he be the one who has to endure the pain of loss again and again, why should he have to be the instrument of Dumbledore, the tool of the Dark Lord, the reason the one good thing he has worked for is led like a lamb to the slaughter.

How many more times will he have to watch the boy die, he wonders. _Don't I already have enough of his blood on my hands?_ As if summoned by the very thought of the boy, the air in the rooms around him suddenly thickens and rumbles ominously with thunder. Severus claps his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes tightly closed, like a child trying to ward off a boggart. He won't do it again, he _won't_.

But whatever magic keeps bringing these visions does not bend to his will. Light flashes bright white beyond his closed eyelids, and the smell of burning heat fills his nostrils. But Severus doesn't move--he cannot stop the haunting, but he does not have to acknowledge it. 

He doesn't have to acknowledge it, at least, until there is a soft touch at his shoulder. With a startled shout, Severus jerks back, eyes opening wide to the sight of Harry Potter, thinner and dishevelled and older, perhaps, standing in front of him.

"Professor?"

Severus swallows, drinks in the sight of Potter, who looks as shocked to see him as he is to see the boy surprisingly whole, for once.

"Potter," he rasps at length, voice surprisingly neutral for all the emotion that feels knotted up in his chest.

The boy's expression crumples, and he jerks slightly forward and then stops, as if he wants to throw himself at Severus for something, but has managed to restrain himself. "Professor, I'm so _sorry_ , I _didn't know_!" The words are filled with an anguish that Severus doesn't understand. What would Potter possibly need to apologize to him for? But, then, this isn't his Potter, is it? This is some glimpse into something that he doesn't understand.

"There is no need for apologies," he says gently, because what else is there to say? Potter has done exactly as he ought, even when it infuriated Severus.

"I should have done more, should have tried harder--that bloody _snake_ , I never imagined that Voldemort would--" The boy choked on his words and shook his head furiously. "I should have done more and now we're both dead."

Severus blinked, feeling the words like a blow. He'd never particularly imagined that he would survive the war, especially after Dumbledore's death request, but it is another thing entirely to hear the words confirmed. He takes in a slow breath, glances over Potter, looking for signs of injury and still finding none. 

"I didn't wish death for you," he says softly. "You should have lived until you were old and stooped with age, surrounded by your children and your children's children."

The boy looks shocked for a moment, his mouth falling open as he stares at Severus, and then he does something that he's never done before--at least not while looking at his most hated professor. He smiles.

Harry Potter smiles at him, the expression open and wide and Severus bends forward at his waist, covering his face again, thoroughly undeserving. "I would have traded myself for you a hundred times," he mutters into the press of his palms, humiliated by the despair that aches through him.

Next to him, the sofa dips, and a hand presses itself to his shoulder. "Everyone dies," the boy's voice says gently. "No one knows when it might happen, not really." The hand drops from his shoulder, replaced by the nudging curve of a shoulder that leans into his side, not quite an embrace, but quiet support. "I was afraid, you know. Dreadfully, terribly afraid," he says musingly, and then gives a soft huff of laughter. "I was afraid, but my mum and dad were by my side."

Surprised, Severus looks up at him, suddenly realizes how grown he looks, how much he resembles the stranger he met in the rain-- a man he will never grow to be, if Severus plays his part. Potter smiles at him again, the expression wistful now.

"My mum and dad were there and you're here now. Dying didn't hurt and," he pauses, looking thoughtfully around Severus' quarters, "being dead doesn't seem like it will be so bad." He closes his eyes and relaxes into Severus' side. "I'm luckier than most, I think," he murmurs, and fades into the ether.

Severus is alone again. 

**May, 1998**

When Severus wakes it is to the bright morning light of the infirmary and the feeling of a warm hand tucked into his own. The real surprise, of course, is that he wakes at all. The last thing he remembers is the feeling of his flesh giving way beneath Nagini's teeth and the sight of Potter's green, green gaze, guiding him into the darkness of oblivion.

He blinks up at the white ceiling above him for a long second, trying to reconcile himself with the fact that he is somehow, miraculously, _not dead_ , then turns his head to see just who would possibly be sitting at his bedside. He regrets the movement almost immediately, the wave of fiery pain that washes through him bringing tears to his eyes.

"You shouldn't be moving just yet." The voice that speaks is warm, though it wavers with age, and a gentle hand strokes Severus' hair back from his forehead.

When he finally blinks away the blurriness of his vision, Severus gasps in a breath of shock that sends the pain through him all over again. For a moment, a bare moment, he thinks he is seeing the ghost of Albus Dumbledore: all twinkling eyes and snowy white beard and audaciously colored robes. This man is older still than Albus managed, those twinkling eyes a shade of green that Severus will not soon forget, and a scar crossing his weathered brow.

"Potter," Severus croaks, grimacing at the wave of molten anguish that lights itself along his throat.

"Shh, Severus," he murmurs, stroking his free hand along Severus' hair again. "I've caused you quite some trouble, I think, my love." The hand that is tangled in Severus' own squeezes gently. "I owe you an apology."

Severus raises his brow in question, not ready to risk the pain of speaking again--not yet, at least--and Potter smiles.

"I am so very glad to see you again. That's all I wanted, you know. I didn't mean to cause you any pain."

Severus frowned and squeezed the hand in his, pointedly.

"Yes, all right," the old man said with a little wince. "I'll get on with it. I'm old, Severus. Very old." A gnarled finger stroked along Severus' cheekbone. "I'm dying. I'm dying and leaking power and--" He shook his head, white beard swishing against his robes. "It may surprise you to know that I am afraid. I've wanted to see you again, just once." He gives a vague gesture with his hand. "Magic works in strange ways. Time branches in more directions and possibilities than we can see. Sometimes a strong wish can muddy the waters."

Severus' brow furrows in confusion, but Potter seemed to be able to read the question there.

"I suppose it would also surprise you to know what you come to mean to me. How afraid I am, at the thought you won't be waiting for me, when I can finally join you again." Tired green eyes travel thoughtfully around the infirmary, before they make their way back to Severus' gaze. "This is the beginning of something important, Severus. Take hold of your happiness with both hands."

Severus stares back at the old man and remembers a kiss, twenty years old, remembers the desperate words. _I love you, Severus._ He squeezes the fingers tangled in his own again, more gently this time.

"I will be waiting for you," he whispers, low and rough, heedless of the ache in his throat. "Always."

Green eyes blink in surprise and Severus finds that not even a hundred years can dim Harry Potter's bright smile.

The old man fades from view in a matter of seconds, still smiling, and Severus takes in a slow breath, gathering his thoughts when he feels a stirring at his side. 

In slow painful increments, he turns his head to find Harry Potter, head pillowed on the edge of his infirmary cot, sound asleep.

Strangely disbelieving, considering what he'd just heard the old man say, Severus stretches out his fingers, brushes them against the inky black waves spilled across the white sheets. Potter is apparently a light sleeper; he snaps up with a startled yelp, eyes blinking open wide.

"You're awake!" He seems as surprised by this as Severus feels at the sight of him.

They stare at each other in mutual astonishment for a few long moments before Potter manages to gather his wits first, licking his lips nervously before he speaks. "I saw you, when I died. It was… a dream, almost, I think?" His brows cramp together with consternation. "I kept dying, but you were always there. You were always there for me."

Severus says nothing to this, both because he's quickly learned his lesson about speaking around the torment in his throat, and because he doesn't know what he _should_ say to this confession. Surely the boy cannot be suggesting what he thinks?

"I'm glad you didn't die," Potter says after another long moment, then gives a snort of dark amusement. "I'm glad neither of us died." He slants a gaze over at Severus and slowly, shyly smiles. "Now we just have to figure out what to do with ourselves, eh?"

At this, Severus finds a smile of his own, though Potter looks astonished to see it. He swallows and grimaces at the pain, but forges ahead. "We take hold of happiness," he rasps, and reaches forward to grasp Harry's hand, squeezing it gently.

_Epilogue_

Harry closes his eyes in the Hogwarts infirmary and opens them to warm sunlight. A green pasture stretches out in front of him, nothing but waves of grass as far as the eye can see. When he takes a deep breath, he can smell rain in the air, but the sky is blue and cloudless. For the first time in decades, he finds that he has no lingering aches or pains, and it is _wonderful_ , but there is one thing that he wants _more_.

A warm palm slips against his own, fingers tangling together. He stares out at the view in front of him for another long moment before he lifts his gaze. Severus looks younger than the last time Harry had seen him, worry lifted from his expression and replaced with an easy warmth that has only ever been for Harry. "You waited for me."

"I told you I would," Severus murmurs and squeezes his hand.


End file.
